


I cannot meet the Spring unmoved

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Caught, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matron Brannan makes her rounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I cannot meet the Spring unmoved

“Two weeks till the wedding, ye said, Dr. Foster? Ye might want to speak to the chaplain about that, I’m not convinced we’ll all survive that long,” Matron Brannan said wryly. 

She was talking only to Jed Foster, since Mary had hastened from the room, her face scarlet, after Bridget had cleared her voice and exclaimed “Holy God in Heaven!” coming upon the two locked in an embrace. She’d actually been a little surprised to find it was them in the alcove, thinking the shadow of a woman’s skirt must belong to one of the Miss Greens, the elder she assumed when she saw a dark haired woman from a distance. She hadn’t tiptoed in hopes of catching them, as Nan Hastings would have been sure to, if only the Englishwoman were capable of a dancer’s tread and not the heavy step that made even fine Morocco slippers sound like Army boots, but she hadn’t tried to announce her presence in advance either. Bridget Brannan wasn’t one for airs and graces and wouldn’t faint at the sight of a little romance; it would make an entertaining change of pace, she’d thought, to play the role of a stern, upright Matron policing sin, a relief compared to dealing with the moaning sick boys and their filthy linens, the weevil-strewn flour, grief-stricken women who found their man dying or dead as they just arrived, before they’d untied their bonnets. It was an enormous task but she hadn’t had to face it alone since the Baroness arrived at the hospital. Mary managed the hospital well with Bridget’s assistance and they had all grown used to her careful and diligent efficiency. What Mansion House would do with the interim Head Nurse, still unnamed by Miss Dix, Bridget couldn’t make out but Mary was leaving to be married in two weeks and now it seemed even that might be too long.

It had seemed Bridget might shout that the War had ended or that Lincoln himself had returned for a visit and they wouldn’t hear her, so preoccupied were they with their lovemaking. Foster held Mary tightly and the nurse had wound her arms around his neck and Bridget saw her slender hand, very fair against Foster’s dark curls and the sober wool of his coat. They must have been kissing for some time, for Mary’s hair was partially undone, chestnut waves free from her snood and as Foster moved to kiss her cheeks, her closed eyes, Bridget saw the young woman’s mouth was even redder from her lover’s impassioned kisses, her lace collar untied and even the top buttons of her bodice opened. She might have let them go on with it, but Foster shifted, moved to stroke and kiss Mary’s bare throat but also started talking, low, yet entirely audible except that he broke the cadence with his caresses and Mary’s soft cries. Bridget hadn’t been able to help hearing “Oh, Molly! I want you-- in my bed, my wife-- mine… my sweet love,” but it occurred to her that anyone else might be truly aghast to see them anticipating their vows so, Nan Hastings eager to spread a rumor that could taint the new marriage, Byron Hale to tarnish Foster however he could, heedless of the effect on Mary, though loutish Hale seemed almost stupidly fond of the Head Nurse. So she’d coughed a little, aided by the nagging catarrh she’d had trouble shaking for months, and put on a tone of shocked disapproval and smiled to herself to see Mary’s embarrassment, the flutter of her hands, her murmured excuses and the way Foster had still, still! been loath to let her go, his eyes following her out the door. Bridget was a tender-hearted woman so she’d paused in her planned harangue to let him watch his sweetheart flee.

“Aren’t you all of forty-four and a Captain? Ye might have a care, there’ll be no excuses ye can make if McBurney finds you like I did, or Hale—and leave off your caterwauling about his faults for once, and think of your Molly, I think ye called her? Could have been anyone who walked in and I think only Samuel Diggs wouldn’t be shocked. Why, the nuns would be on their knees, the lot of them!” she said, enjoying herself but also warning him. 

They’d had a hard road and she wouldn’t like to see anything derail the little wedding Mary had been planning with such joy, though she tried to remain circumspect and to appear entirely devoted to her work. Bridget knew the look of a woman in love and Mary could not hide the radiance in her expression, had become even more gentle with ill boys and, a blessing from the Lord above, still took Foster to task when he was too brusque or glib about a patient’s care, acting the preening paycock in the middle of the ward. Henry Hopkins had noticed the change in Mary and spoken of it, maybe because he was a friend to both or using his mantle as a man of God to conceal how he wished for something similar, commenting, “I hadn’t thought to see it, what it looks like when “my cup runneth over,” but it’s a rare gift to us here-- her so glad, something whole and good come of the War, the work we do.” Then he’d looked away, searching for the pretty Dixie lass as usual and she’d made her sigh at his youth a cough to save his pride. Foster was older, more experienced and had taken more knocks—he wouldn’t be as put out by her scolding, though she expected some genuine chagrin and a bit of bother than she’d witnessed his naked affection, prudent Mary’s recklessness, her ardent response.

“Matron Brannan, I sincerely apologize. We—I shall behave with more decorum, I take your meaning,” he said formally. Then he paused and he was gleeful, boyish and bright-eyed and she thought she’d never seen him look so well.

“I can’t believe it’s true, I can’t believe she’s marrying me… I can’t resist her. I think I shall wake up soon and it’ll all be gone, so I try to steal a kiss before the dawn breaks,” he explained.

“It’s true and it’ll stay true, but ye still might talk to Chaplain, as long as yer house is all ready. A few days more here won’t make much difference to Mansion House, but yer acting like a bridegroom, ye might not forget to make her yer bride first, official-like,” she said with a laugh.

“No, I ought not forget that, I shan’t. And Matron, you cut me to the quick—I’m only forty-three,” Jed replied. 

It might be so, but he didn’t look a day over twenty-two as he walked out of the room, she hoped in search of Hopkins, not Mary, else all her talking was for naught. She doubted he could help himself greeting her with a kiss, even if the Head Nurse stood smack in the middle of the ward.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the title and the trope of getting caught kissing. It exists in the same universe as "Each life Converges..." where Jed is widowed. And let's all enjoy that fact that two weeks before Mary leaves, Anne Hastings still hasn't gotten the Head Nurse job.
> 
> Emily Dickinson for the title, the win, as usual!
> 
> Happy Labor Day weekend, Americans!


End file.
